Nursery Tales and Fairy Rhymes

Sensuality, sensitivity, censor all save proclivity.
In the hour of the mouse
When the clock has struck me down,
My courage will never waiver
Like the smile of a clown.
When my pockets, full and gaudy,
Have extended beyond my body;
When the nourished epidermis
Has marked a stretch of pastry kiss,
My mind, smoked like hickory,
Fathoms ding-a-derries and dickory.
And the every and the all
Is just an eggshell on the wall.
Hickory, dickory, doctor- the mouse ran up and clocked her.
The clock struck a cheek.
The blood, diluted and weak.
No more thicker than water,
Contrary to what I taught her.
Why the mouse ran blindly down
To the solemn sanctum of ground;
What was in that gentle town,
Save the Piper's fluty sound?
My heart fluttered like sparrows
Before the boy who shoots the arrows.
And the nothing and the nil
Is just a whey and curdy spill.
Sensitive, sensual, I sensed a paused perpetual.
A tree held Alice sleeping
Whilst my words were crassly creeping.
My home, oh my home
Was lost in the volumes of a tome.
Who could carry a crown of laughter,
Where my thoughts came tumbling after?
How can a clock berate
By the tick-tock of a hue too late?
My power of verbose banter,
Succumbed to candid cantor.
And all the while and all the during
Is mere talu to keep her stirring.

pocket poems

crinkled pages
wrinkled words
and lint is in the way
like all sages
I write absurds
and sell them in dismay
short but sweet
that is how i write
precious little gems
within a beat
of pure delight
pocket my poems

Carpe Diem

A cantaloupe, peppered with age, sits on a rotting table.
An oak so strong- the forest mage!- now stands on legs unable.
---and in that dying of the light, they falter once, they lose the fight.
An emery board, worn to nub, lays limp upon the floor.
A fingernail, down to stub, asleep and prunes no more.
---and as their lives slip away, they search for hope, they find decay.

These tragedies of which I speak are not for hearts and minds of weak.
Simple statements. Moments of past. Lived too young--- died too fast.

Taking into account the unexpected

As I walk about my every day, I notice those noticing me.
How many can say that?
A mother sees a father watching his son smiling in accomplishment
but frowns on her daughter's eyeing of the same boy.
Superimposing vision on observation to foresee what once occurred
by the same haunted look.
Experience clouds the judgement of a future's history
by a past blight of oversight.
To push the freedom of hard-learned ignorance toward a chosen path
of open-mindedness and finally be witness to the fact
that assumptions, without hindsight, lead away from the desired destination
of needing proper direction.
The things people notice are not as scary as the things that notice people.